


what doesn't kill me (makes me want you more)

by holtzmanns



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings, M/M, post branjie show, yearning pining longing all of that fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzmanns/pseuds/holtzmanns
Summary: “I did mean it, you know.” Brooke looks at her with such an intensity in her eyes, such conviction that Vanessa doesn’t even feel her ADD ass getting distracted by anything at all this time.“Mean what?” Vanessa’s gonna play dumb. Gonna make Brooke say it again, ‘cause she’s never gonna tire of hearing it.“That I love you.”





	what doesn't kill me (makes me want you more)

**Author's Note:**

> In which Holtzmanns hears 'Cruel Summer' by Taylor Swift and has to write something because she has no self control whatsoever. Whoops?
> 
> Poppedthep and Writ are absolute stars and the BEST for editing this and making it better.

**_For whatever it's worth I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?_ **

“I did mean it, you know.” Brooke looks at her with such an intensity in her eyes, such conviction that Vanessa doesn’t even feel her ADD ass getting distracted by anything at all this time. 

“Mean what?” Vanessa’s gonna play dumb. Gonna make Brooke say it again, ‘cause she’s never gonna tire of hearing it.

“That I love you.”

Even though it fucking hurts every time. 

“Good. You better.” She deflects, shoves Brooke’s side to make her laugh, ‘cause what else is she supposed to do? 

It’s not like Brooke’s words actually mean anything. Not in the way Vanessa wants them to, needs them to. 

They’re empty. Empty promises, a bandage wrapped around an amicable breakup that sure as hell ain’t been easy to get over. 

Because no matter how much Brooke says them, no matter the way she had to snap her fingers in front of Vanessa’s face earlier to get her to focus, to pay attention so that she could say _ ‘I love you,’ _Vanessa knows they don’t matter.

‘Cause Vanessa knows that Brooke doesn’t love her _ enough. _

Brooke still goes after every hoe, every hot piece of trade that she wants to take back to her hotel room, going home with them. She knows she’s the shit. She doesn’t care that Vanessa sees, ‘cause why would it matter to her now?

They’re not together.

Brooke doesn’t love her like _ that. _ Enough to stop herself from sleeping around, enough to commit. 

Vanessa’s fine with it, she is. Mostly ‘cause she has to be. How else is she gonna survive touring with her ex? 

It beats the fighting, the nasty words. The cruel barbs she regrets the second they leave her mouth when she sees the way that Brooke’s eyes falter. Brooke can get away with causing Vanessa pain, fucking around, not giving a shit. But Vanessa’s unable to come for Brooke in any way that would leave a permanent mark on her pale skin.

It’s not Brooke’s fault. She doesn’t say anything. It’s Vanessa’s own inner voice, tutting in her head, _ Chile...don’t do that. Don’t stay stooping low_.

Now that she thinks about it, her inner voice sounds a lot like A’keria. 

They share an Uber back to the Gladstone Hotel with Jason and Steve ‘cause it’s cost efficient, not that either of them have to worry about money anymore. They’re still in drag and Vanessa’s feet are killing her, pinching in her heeled boots but at least she looks fucking good in them. Brooke still towers over her and Vanessa has to speed up her pace to keep up as they walk through the lobby.

Jason and Steve get off at their respective floors. They leave Vanessa in the elevator with Brooke, ‘cause she’s on the seventh floor and Brooke’s pressed the _ 6 _button for herself. Vanessa doesn’t have to look up to know that Brooke’s eyes are on her, trailing up her dress and lingering on the highlight on her shoulders and the hand that she runs through her hair. Her gaze feels like it lights a flame across her body, burning and burning. It never burns bright enough to bring Vanessa down for good, make her fully fall apart. She always manages to survive it, albeit a little worse for wear. 

The elevator dings when it reaches the sixth floor, and Brooke takes a step as the doors open. She doesn’t leave fully, though, one foot still in the elevator. She turns around, gives Vanessa those eyes. The ones that Vanessa can never fucking say no to ‘cause something about Brooke makes her weak.

“You coming?”

Vanessa rolls her eyes, huffs, as if she’s not clamoring to follow her. “Fine, bitch. You better have extra makeup wipes.”

Vanessa sits cross legged on Brooke’s bathroom counter in her underwear, stripping her face of the makeup and glitter that acts like an extra set of armour, though one not thick enough to protect her from what she so desperately needs it to. She’s still here, de-dragging with Brooke whom she’s as hung up over they way she is over Brock. 

Rinsing off his face and washing off the remnants of the Branjie gig isn’t cleansing enough for Jose to bring him a sense of peace or closure. How can it, when Brock is shaking out the mess of curls on top of his head and looking at Jose like he’s a piece of meat or something? 

Jose really ought to become a vegetarian. It would save him from being hung up over someone that don’t want him back. At least, not like that. 

Brock puts his hands on either side of the counter where Jose is sitting, effectively boxing him in while he’s facing the mirror. It fills Jose’s nose with a mix of Brock’s shampoo from the morning, aftershave, and a spritz or two of perfume that he sprays on when he’s Brooke. A concoction that never fails to twist Jose’s heart in excitement and longing alike. 

How is it possible to long for someone who’s standing right in front of you? Jose doesn’t know. What he does know is that it’s not good for him, aging him too fast and soon he’s gonna look older than his mother, though it ain’t that much of a challenge ‘cause no one believes she’s his mom, anyway. Brock feels like sand that’s slipping through his fingers, an emptying hourglass that’ll never fill itself up again. Brock and him are gonna separate as they always do and Jose’s gonna be left empty and turned upside down on his head with nothing to fill his heart back up. 

He’s tried. Tried to fit other guys into the hole that Brock’s left in his chest, but they never fit, never feel right. Brock’s ruined all other trade for him, which in Jose’s rulebook should be considered a capital offense. It doesn’t matter how much they look like Ryan Gosling or how sweet they treat him, taking care of him the way he deserves but doesn’t want from people who ain’t Brock. 

Brock buries his face into Jose’s neck, and Jose can feel the scrunch of his eyes shut against his skin. Brock does this sometimes, holding him extra tight or closer than usual and Jose doesn’t want to complain, ‘cause really, he wishes he’d be important enough to Brock for him to never let go. 

Jose lets Brock grab his shoulders, turn him around so his back is to the mirror and his legs dangle off the counter. He melts into the kiss that Brock presses to his lips ‘cause Brock always makes him feel so warm from the inside out. He lets Brock push him onto the bed, eagerly pulls Brock closer. If he’s only gonna get Brock occasionally, when they’re in the same cities and maybe a little bit tipsy and their inhibitions and common senses are down for the count, he may as well enjoy it, right? 

It’s gonna hurt later. When he has to leave Brock’s hotel suite in the morning for his own and go back to pretending that he’s fine, that their _ arrangement _ is fine and that he’s not a second away from breaking down over it again, like he always tends to do when he’s had one too many tequila shots and listened to too many sad songs and the only word that his brain can think is _ Brock Brock Brock. _

But that ain’t now. Right now Jose has Brock on top of him, pressing kisses everywhere like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and it’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter that Brock won’t keep believing it after they both come. 

It’s not ‘til it’s four a.m. and neither of them are sleeping that Jose says something. He’s resting his head on top of Brock’s chest, and can feel Brock trace patterns along his shoulder blades, the base of his spine, the curve of his ribs. 

“We could go back to this. All the time. It wouldn’t be hard to do.”

Brock’s fingers stop moving. Jose can feel the way that Brock stiffens underneath him, the way that his heartbeat quickens. 

“We can’t.” 

It’s a conversation that they’ve had before. Too many times before.

“We could. Me and you. Not for the fans or for anyone else or nothing. Just us. I know you miss it, Toes.” As if the nickname is going to make Brock bend. It nearly does, ‘cause Jose catches Brock’s fingers twitching. 

“You know what will happen if we do.” Brock’s voice is tired and worn and Jose almost hates that he’s the one who’s caused it. Almost. ‘Cause Brock’s gone and fucked him up, too. 

The two of them cancel each other out. Yin and yang, molten and ice. 

“What? What’s gonna happen?” Jose makes Brock say it every time. He’s not gonna stop asking, as if Brock’s logic will suddenly not be as airtight anymore.

Jose wants them to work so badly. He wants it, his heart wants it, hell, his entire body wants it and never wants to let Brock go whenever they’re like this, all intertwined as if they’re just two regular people that are together. 

And yet, they always have to drift apart. Brock takes a piece of him each time he goes, and Jose knows he does ‘cause what else could explain the hole in his chest that seems to grow every time that he walks away?

“We’re always flying to different places, we’re never in the same time zones anymore. Our schedules are ridiculous right now. Adding that extra pressure would make things worse, you know that.” Brock’s voice is quiet, and Jose almost doesn’t hear it over the hum of the ceiling fan, the sounds of driving cars outside of the hotel window.

“We’d make it work, if we wanted.” Jose wants to. He really, really, wants to. More than anything he’s wanted his whole life. 

“We already tried.” Brock sounds defeated. “You know what happened with that.”

Jose getting jealous of every hoe that Brock talked to, hugged, interacted with. Brock pulling away from him, as far as he could to give himself some space, as if being around literally anyone else was a better option. 

Jose had felt like he was chasing a ghost, whispers of Brock because he was never truly _ there_, not in the way that Jose needed. Jose gets it. He’s a lot, he’s a handful. But he wants the best, goes after the best, because he deserves it.

Brock’s the best, in his eyes. So soft and sweet and shady and Jose fits in the crook of his arm like he belongs there, even though he knows that he can’t stay there forever. 

Jose wishes he could, though. That getting back together wouldn’t immediately mean destruction for the both of them.

“Doesn’t mean you should go, though.” Brock wraps an arm around his waist, pulls him closer. Jose wants to lift his face up and scream at him for being so flippy floppy but he also wants to scream at himself, ‘cause of course he’s not going to leave, not when his heart never wants to leave Brock in the first place. 

“Stay.” Brock’s voice is all soft in his ear and Jose’s resolve is already on the ground when Brock’s hands start to trail up his sides. 

He’s too weak for it. 

“Can’t go. I know you’d cry yourself to sleep if I did.” Jose grins up at Brock, trying not to think about the fact that Brock probably wouldn’t even care. Would he?

Jose hates it. As sweet as he’s being right now, he knows Brock’s gonna be ignoring him by next week. Not responding to his calls, his texts, unless he wants something ‘cause they always play by Brock’s rules and it’s giving Jose whiplash. 

Brock’s all warm right now, and being in his arms is making Jose feel like he never frosted over in the first place. As if this were a year ago, and they were newly together and everything was fresh and exciting and new and not marred by scars that both of them carved with dull knives into their intertwined hearts. If he closes his eyes, they could be back there. All new and tentative and exciting.

But they’re not. They’ll never go back to that. Brock’s made it clear.

It’s fine. Jose’s fine with it.

He is.

Jose still has a piece of Brock, anyway, even though nights like these cause burns upon his skin in the aftermath. Like he’s never gonna heal from the effect that Brock has on him. Like it doesn’t even matter, ‘cause he doesn’t want to. 

Brock’s always gonna tug on his belt loops, pull him into an empty rooms, hallways, each others’ hotel rooms. ‘Cause this is what they do now.

It’s better. 

Jose has to accept it, go with it, even though it burns.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at @plastiquetiaras on tumblr!


End file.
